Stefano has a knowing look in his eyes.
Luca is frowning at my coffee like it personally insulted his mother.
“What’s wrong with American coffee?” I ask, lifting my cup to my lips and taking a sip of the delicious nectar.
“It’s nothing more than watered-down bean juice,” Luca says. “Revolting.”
With a shudder, he turns and walks away.
Rude.
“There’s nothing wrong with my coffee,” I call after him.
He doesn’t turn around.
I look at Stefano. “Here, taste.”
His smile vanishes.
Now it’s his turn to frown.
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” he repeats. “I’m on Luca’s side. American coffee is terrible.”
“I’ll have you know that without this American coffee, I’d be a very grumpy woman.”
“Youwouldbe?” he asks, far too innocently.
“Oh, bite me, Steffy. Like you’d know. You start your day with a shot.”
Laughing, he walks over to the overly complicated machine built into the counter and starts pushing buttons.
“It’s not a shot. It’s espresso.”
“It’s still a shot.”
“It’s Italian coffee,” he says. “I’ll make you acaffè macchiato. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“I don’t understand a single thing about the people in this estate,” I mutter around another sip of mydeliciouscoffee. “Tiny shots for breakfast. Insanity.”
“It packs more punch than that entire cup of watered-down sadness in your hand,” Stefano says. “And it takes far less time to drink.”
“My cup of watered-down sadness is warm, loyal, and dependable.”
“It’s weak.”
I gasp. “Take that back.”
“I will not.”
“You are insulting an American institution.”
“I’m insulting hot bean water.”
“It has carried mothers through school mornings, grocery trips, laundry piles, and children who ask questions before sunrise. Show some respect.”
